The Eagle's Shadow eBook

“But,” said she, “if the Fates are
kind to me—­and I sometimes think I have
a pull with the gods—­I’ll make you
happy, Billy Woods, in spite of yourself.”

The mirror flashed back a smile. Margaret was
strangely interested in the mirror.

“She has ringlets in her hair,” sang Margaret
happily—­a low, half-hushed little song.
She held up a strand of it to demonstrate this fact.

“There’s a dimple in her chin”—­and,
indeed, there was. And a dimple in either cheek,
too.

For a long time afterward she continued to smile at
the mirror. I am afraid Kathleen Saumarez was
right. She was a vain little cat, was Margaret.

But, barring a rearrangement of the cosmic scheme,
I dare say maids will continue to delight in their
own comeliness so long as mirrors speak truth.
Let us, then, leave Miss Hugonin to this innocent
diversion. The staidest of us are conscious of
a brisk elation at sight of a pretty face; and surely
no considerate person will deny its owner a portion
of the pleasure that daily she accords the beggar at
the street-corner.

XXXIII

We are credibly informed that Time travels in divers
paces with divers persons—­the statement
being made by a lady who may be considered to speak
with some authority, having triumphantly withstood
the ravages of Chronos for a matter of three centuries.
But I doubt if even the insolent sweet wit of Rosalind
could have devised a fitting simile for Time’s
gait at Selwoode those five days that Billy lay abed.
Margaret could not but marvel at the flourishing proportion
attained by the hours in those sunlit spring days;
and at dinner, say, her thoughts harking back to luncheon,
recalled it by a vigorous effort as an affair of the
dim yester-years—­a mere blurred memory,
faint and vague as a Druidical tenet or a Merovingian
squabble.

But the time passed for all that; and eventually—­it
was just before dusk—­she came, with Martin
Jeal’s permission, into the room where Billy
was. And beside the big open fireplace, where
a wood fire chattered companionably, sat a very pallid
Billy, a rather thin Billy, with a great many bandages
about his head.

You may depend upon it, Margaret was not looking her
worst that afternoon. By actual count, Celestine
had done her hair six times before reaching an acceptable
result.

And, “Yes, Celestine, you may get out that pale
yellow dress. No, beautiful, the one with the
black satin stripes on the bodice—­because
I don’t want my hair cast completely in the shade,
do I? Now, let me see—­black feather,
gloves, large pompadour, and a sweet smile.
No, I don’t want a fan—­that’s
a Lydia Languish trade-mark. And two silk
skirts rustling like the deadest leaves imaginable.
Yes, I think that will do. And if you can’t
hook up my dress without pecking and pecking at me
like that, I’ll probably go stark, staring
crazy, Celestine, and then you’ll be sorry.
No, it isn’t a bit tight—­are you perfectly
certain there’s no powder behind my ears, Celestine?
Now, please try to fasten the collar without
pulling all my hair down. Ye-es, I think that
will do, Celestine. Well, it’s very nice
of you to say so, but I don’t believe I much
fancy myself in yellow, after all.”